Jarkko Sipila - Nothing but the Truth

“Turunen,” Joutsamo’s voice came over the earpiece. “The matching plate is all we needed. It’s

a go.”

“Good. Two minutes till showtime. Everyone in position?”

The other officers checked in over the radio.

“Look!” Suhonen rasped. A faint wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of the house.

“Someone’s inside.”

“Or we got a new pope,” said Suhonen. “Though I’m more interested in what they’re burning.”

* * *

Korpi and Siikala sat round the fireplace, a few fresh newspapers burning under the grate, the flames just beginning to work their way through a pile of birch splits. Beads of sweat glistened on Korpi’s bald head.

Siikala bent down and blew into the stack, keeping his ponytail away from the mounting flames. Smoke wafted into the room.

The fireplace was situated in a small room on the first floor. For the most part, the interior looked just as dated as the building, with its old sofa, television, bookcase and a broken grandfather clock. A rag rug lay on the worn hardwood floor and pale, sun-faded floral curtains hung in front of the windows.

Both Korpi and Siikala had a sheet of paper and pen in hand. No notepads, since the cops could discern what had been written by the indentations on the lower sheets. Korpi had forbidden speaking because of the possibility of microphones. Speech was only allowed in the most random of places where it would be impossible to plant a mike.

Siikala scratched out a message and showed it to Korpi: Should I ditch the car?

No need , Korpi scribbled. I didn’t do nothing .

Nyberg’s in jail!

His problem. He won’t talk.

Sure?

Korpi nodded as he tossed his sheet into the fire. Siikala did the same, pushing them around with the poker enough that no forensic scientist could ever discern anything from the ashes.

Korpi’s philosophy was simple: leave no trace. Speaking out loud was a great way to wind up on tape. Since phones left a digital trail, they were only used in emergencies; and even then, only on anonymous phones with new, prepaid SIM cards. Korpi even took to wearing Levi’s since reading that their fibers were too common for the police to use as evidence.

Korpi had structured his organization so that only he understood its entirety. Siikala routed the domestic drug traffic, while Nyberg and Matti Ahola were mainly debt collectors. Ahola was also responsible for hiding the inventory. Beyond that, there was the import racket, but that was for Korpi to run himself. Each of his men knew only his own role, and nothing more.

Though Siikala, Nyberg and Ahola knew each other, only Korpi knew the entire organization. The trio’s minions weren’t even aware that Korpi was the man in charge, though naturally many had heard rumors. But for every weak link he could think of, Korpi had a safeguard.

Siikala thought Nyberg had made a surprisingly dumb move, but it was none of his business. Nyberg could run his own crew as he saw fit, though he wondered why Korpi had been behind the wheel during the hit.

Korpi rubbed his bald head. “You want coffee?” he said without expecting an answer. The coffeemaker had recently sputtered out its last few drops, and Korpi was the one that wanted some. He was on his way to the kitchen when the front door smashed open.

“Police!” boomed a voice from the door.

* * *

Officer Dahlman repeated the warning. “Police!”

When raiding a gang’s hideout, it was wise to make it very clear who was entering. From the gangsters’ standpoint, the game the cops played was fair, at least at the outset. The cops weren’t out to kill, but the same could not be said of rival criminals.

The SWAT officers wore composite helmets and black masks. Their eyes were protected with shatterproof goggles.

“On the floor! Hands on your heads!”

The first officer through the door, the point man, was wielding a big, black ninety-pound ballistic shield heavy enough to stop a handgun bullet. A small window in the middle of the shield was reinforced with bulletproof Plexiglass. Just after the point man was Dahlman, holding a Heckler amp; Koch MP5 submachine gun in firing position. The shield provided good cover in the narrow entryway. Just behind Dahlman were two other SWAT officers.

The men stayed in a tight stack behind the shield. Only the barrel of Dahlman’s gun jutted out from the side.

“In the entryway,” Dahlman barked over the radio. “We’re moving in.”

“OK,” said Turunen. The units outside had to be aware of where the team was in the house, so they wouldn’t accidentally fire on fellow cops through the windows.

Dahlman heard the dog bark behind him a few times-a message to those in the house that fleeing was futile.

The shield bearer advanced to the entrance of the living room. Dahlman noted the empty room and the fire in the fireplace, then spurred the shield bearer onward.

“Living room clear. We’re heading into the kitchen toward the stairs.”

“Copy.”

The shield bearer pressed on toward the kitchen with a shuffling gait. His left foot always led, the right coming just abreast with every step. In this stance he was always ready to withstand a blow, and the shield came in handy for forcing a suspect up against a wall.

“We’re entering the kitchen,” Dahlman reported. “Let’s go.”

The shield bearer inched through the doorway, and when the shield was halfway through, he saw a man sitting at the table. “Suspect in sight,” he rasped, still moving forward. Dahlman pushed the machine gun barrel between the door jamb and the shield.

“Police! On the ground!” he shouted, but the man at the table didn’t move. That’s when Dahlman noticed a second man sitting on the opposite side of the table.

Both appeared to be drinking coffee.

“Get on the ground!” Dahlman shouted, again with no result. The men sat motionless, not even glancing toward the door. Dahlman recalled a training scenario in which a deaf man couldn’t hear their commands. He quickly eliminated that possibility, since he could see their mouths moving and hear them talking.

“Can’t a man drink coffee in his own house,” said the bald one, whom Dahlman recognized as Risto Korpi, their prime target. The other man laughed.

“Get your hands in the air!”

Korpi turned his head toward the door and asked in a calm voice, “With or without the coffee cup?”

Dahlman kept the dangerous one in the crosshairs. The shield bearer stayed in the middle of the passageway while another sharpshooter rounded to his other side. The situation seemed to be under control, but Dahlman paused for half a second before answering, “Put the cup down and your hands on your head.”

Korpi took a final gulp of coffee before lowering his cup to the table. “What seems to be the problem, officer?” he asked with a doe-eyed stare. “Here we are, having a nice cup of coffee and the Gestapo barges in.”

“Shut up and put your hands on your head!”

Korpi complied with a wry smile. “Well, for chrissakes. The whole SWAT team and everything.”

Dahlman knew his partner on the other side of the room had his MP5 trained on the second man, so he kept his eyes riveted to his target. A quick glance was enough to tell him that the man was Jere Siikala. Dahlman prodded the shield bearer forward enough that he was able to squeeze into the kitchen.

“Keep your hands where they are,” he shouted, advancing about six feet toward Korpi. With his finger nuzzling the trigger, Dahlman hoped the blowhard would stop provoking them with those sips of coffee. One sudden movement could trigger a bloodbath.

Dahlman wanted to minimize the risks. The suspects, though outmanned and outgunned, were extremely dangerous. He came around behind Korpi, and with his wing man behind Siikala, gave a nod and they jerked the chairs backwards.